


We together make a limb

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Community: bats_and_balls, Detroit Tigers, Gen, Ghosts, Minor Character Death, Possession, québécois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-28
Updated: 2011-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:53:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Max St. Pierre told him a couple Spring Trainings ago, when he was just a naïve rookie, that the locker was haunted.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	We together make a limb

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the second round of [](http://bats_and_balls.livejournal.com/profile)[**bats_and_balls**](http://bats_and_balls.livejournal.com/) and [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/bats_and_balls/15794.html). 
> 
> The story of Eddie Chandler is fictional. [This](http://i81.photobucket.com/albums/j221/rowdykylefarnsworth/lakeland/20110224170524_1934.jpg) is Henley Field Ball Park, where the Tigers held Spring Training until 1966. 
> 
> Thanks to [**emeh**](http://emeh.livejournal.com/) for looking this over and [**inplayruns**](http://inplayruns.livejournal.com/) for listening to my whining. I really hate parts of this and really like other parts. 
> 
> Title from “Red Right Ankle,” by The Decemberists. 
> 
> The Quebecois phrase, _Tu as des bébites dans la tête,_ translates to "you have bugs in your head," and means one is a little crazy. _Ça va_ means "how's it going/how are you?"
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

“Baseball is a game dominated by vital ghosts; it’s a fraternity, like no other we have of the active and the no longer so, the living and the dead.”  
— Richard Gilman

Will’s standing in front of his locker, chatting with Scott Sizemore, when the world around him suddenly goes blurry and his entire body starts tingling. A strange prickly feeling starts in the tips of his fingers of his right hand and creeps up his arm, up the side of his neck and into his hairline.

He throws a hand out, grabbing blindly for Sizemore, and tries to say, “I think I’m having a stroke,” but he can’t make the words come out. His tongue is heavy in his mouth.

Will feels a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, and he can hear the concerned hum of Sizemore’s voice, but he can’t make out a word he’s saying.

And then, as quickly as it had happened, the world falls away and he’s alone - alone but not alone. As far as Will can tell, he’s still in the clubhouse with Sizemore, but it’s as if he’s floating overhead, observing, in a sort of out-of-body experience.

He sees himself open his eyes, blink a couple times, and look over at Sizemore.

“Are you okay? You want me to get Rand?” Sizemore asks, voice hazy and indistinct through a filter of - Will’s not really sure. Sizemore’s standing right by him and he sounds miles and miles away. He can feel the hand on his shoulder and yet it’s as if it’s not really there.

Will sees his mouth move, hears his voice say, “I think the heat’s getting to me. It’s nothing.” He watches himself smile at Sizemore and pat him on the shoulder.

 _No_ , Will tries to yell, _something’s not right_ , but the message isn’t getting through; there’s a disconnect in his head somewhere.

“Okay, man, whatever you say,” Sizemore says, and Will feels it more than hears it, “I’ll catch you later. Take care.” He gives Will another squeeze on the shoulder and heads off to his own locker.

 _Wait, Scott, something’s not right here_ , Will yells after him, but Sizemore doesn’t give any indication that he’s heard him. He tries to force himself to follow Sizemore to his locker, but his feet are leaden and he stays right where he is.

Will looks at his hand and tries to will it to move, but his arm remains at his side. Instead, his body turns toward his locker and begins to unbutton his jersey.

 _Listen to me_ , Will yells at his own body, but it doesn’t respond.

 _It’s no use_ , a new, strange voice whispers, barest curl of breath against the back of his neck.

Will turns, raising fists, but nothing, no one’s there. He turns back to see himself moving stiffly, shrugging off his jersey and hanging it on a hook in his locker.

 _Just close your eyes_ , the voice whispers, solicitously. _Take a nap. You’re in good hands now._

 _I’m losing my mind_ , Will says.

 _Close your eyes_ , the voice repeats, its tone growing insistent.

His body - _no, not your body anymore_ \- finishes dressing and moves to the clubhouse exit. Will follows.

His head starts to feel heavy, fuzzy and full of static, and he lets his eyes slip shut. As he does, he swears he hears that voice, saying, _Thank you_.

-

Will opens one eye slowly and is somewhat relieved to find himself in his bed. Muted sunlight filters through filmy curtains. He rubs his fists against his eyes and wills the throbbing ache behind his eyes to cease.

It doesn’t work.

Will sighs and flops back in bed, slinging a bare arm over his face. He’s never drinking like that ever again.

-

Sizemore’s on him the second he sets foot in the clubhouse. “You okay, man? Did you go see Rand?”

Will blinks and raises his eyebrows. “What? What are you talking about, man?”

Sizemore pulls a face. “Dude, you were pretty sick yesterday. You couldn’t even speak,” he says. “Thought you were gonna see Rand about it.”

Will shakes his head and laughs, nudging past Sizemore for his locker. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, man. I’m fine. Just had a little too much to drink last night.”

Sizemore gives Will a skeptical look, mouth pinched. “Uh huh, sure.”

Will reaches his locker and he’s about to start undressing when a funny prickling sensation starts tingling in his fingers. Will jerks back and the feeling fades; he rubs at his throbbing hand and eyes his locker warily.

The locker is old, older than the stadium it’s in, or so he hears. Max St. Pierre told him a couple Spring Trainings ago, when he was just a naïve rookie, that the locker was haunted.

“They always give the haunted locker to the new kid,” Max had said to him with a grin, eyes flashing.

“Oh, give me a break. There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Will scoffed.

Max just looked at him and raised his eyebrows, cocked his head toward the old wooden locker. “Why don’t you ask Eddie Chandler about that?”’

“Eddie Chandler? Who’s that?”

Max had laughed and said, “Look it up. There’s all kinds of stories.”

Will had never bothered to look up Eddie Chandler or any of the stories Max had alluded to. Maybe he should have.

He steps closer - though not close enough to touch - and peers into the locker, half expecting to see a ghost.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters.

A quiet voice whispers, _You’re back_.

Will spins around but he’s the only one in the clubhouse. _Where did everyone else go?_

 _I knew you’d come back_ , the voice says.

Will backs away from the locker and looks for something he defend himself with, _just in case_. “Come on, Max, this isn’t funny.”

 _I am not Max_ , the voice says. It almost sounds irritated with him. _My name is Eddie._

“Eddie Chandler.” The name tumbles from Will’s lips.

 _Yes_ , Chandler says, sounding pleased, his tone growing warm. _You know who I am_.

“No. I mean, sort of. But not really,” Will stammers, looking about wildly, hoping one of his teammates or coaches is just beyond the other side of the door.

 _They’re not coming_ , Chandler says.

The air around Will’s locker ripples and shimmers, as something incorporeal begins to knit itself into the shape of a man. Will steps back, heart leaping up into his throat, and he clenches his hands into fists. As if that would help him.

Chandler is smaller than he’d been expecting but he’s still taller than Will. His uniform is big and blousy, but the old English D hasn’t changed one bit in the however many years Chandler’s been dead. Chandler reaches up and tips the brim of his navy cap back, away from his face, to get a good look at Will.

“What do you want from me,” Will asks.

Chandler drops his arm. “I want you to set me free.”

“Set you free? How?” Will laughs in disbelief and rubs his hands over his face.

“You’ll know,” Chandler says, flicking his eyes back on Will. “It’s too much of an effort to show myself to you like this. I must leave.” He pauses. “Will you help me?”

Will finds himself nodding, in spite of himself. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Thank you.” Chandler blinks out like a snuffed out candle.

The clubhouse doors swing open and the welcome chatter of teammates assaults Will’s ears. He’s never been more happy and relieved to hear Verlander bragging about his latest European sports car. Will almost runs right up to him and wraps him up in a big bear hug, but he refrains.

Max stops by Will’s locker and peers at him, brow furrowing. “Hey, Will, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, entirely without irony.

“You could say that,” Will says.

Max grins and clips Will on the shoulder. “ _Tu as des bébites dans la tête._ ”

“What did you just call me,” Will asks, giving Max a friendly shove.

Max shoves back, still grinning at him. “I called you nothing. You’re a strange fellow, Will Rhymes.”

Max turns and starts for his own locker; Will throws out a hand and grabs onto his arm, tugging him back. “Max, wait.”

He glances over his shoulder, hiking an eyebrow at Will in concern. “ _Ça va,_ Will?”

Will keeps hold of Max’s arm, not sure what to say. Even though Max is the one who first planted the idea of Eddie Chandler in his head, he’ll still probably think he’s insane if he tells him about the ghost.

“I - I don’t know. You remember anything about Eddie Chandler? How’d he die?” Will asks again, finally relenting and letting go of Max.

Max shrugs and drops his duffel on the ground, toeing it toward his locker. “Just a story I heard,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Santy - Santiago - told me the story to scare me. It’s just a thing we do, Will. There’s really no ghosts.”

Will glances back at his locker and the row of white jerseys hanging limply on metal hooks, waiting for him. “But Eddie Chandler actually existed, played for the team, and something happened to him.”

Max sighs and drops his arms at his sides. “I only know what Santy tells me. He said Chandler was supposed to - to -” Max wiggles his fingers in the air as he searches for the right word. “He was supposed to _confronter_ \- no, _défi_ Charlie Gehringer that year they went to the World Series.”

Will shakes his head, confused. “Defy?”

“Challenge! He was to challenge Gehringer for the second base,” Max says, eyes lighting up. “I don’t know how he died, but it happened in Spring Training.”

Will glances back at the locker. “Thanks, Max. Appreciate the help,” he says, patting the catcher on the back.

A funny look flashes briefly across Max’s face. “Anytime, Will. Anytime.”

-

“I haven’t been in a library since college,” Sizemore says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me again what we’re doin’ here?”

Will hunches over the keyboard and types a string of keywords into the computer’s search engine. “I’m looking for information on Eddie Chandler.”

“Who?” Sizemore leans back in his seat to get a look at Will. He looks skeptical.

“You’re going to think I’ve gone off the deep end but I promise you,” Will says, holding up a hand, “I’m completely sane.”

“Oh. This is gonna be good,” Sizemore says, smirking slightly.

Will lowers his hand. “My locker is haunted.”

Sizemore gapes at him, mouth going slack with shock. “What? Dude, you know that’s just a bunch of B.S.”

“St. Pierre said -”

“St. Pierre’s full of crap,” Sizemore says, laughing in disbelief. “He pulls pranks on everybody, man. I can’t believe you fell for it.”

“It’s not a prank. Either that or somebody made a prank out of it after the fact, but Eddie Chandler is real.” Will turns his attention back to the computer screen and clicks through a couple links. The Lakeland Ledger’s site pops up and Will runs a search for information on Chandler. None of his queries turn up anything useful.

“Found anything yet,” Sizemore asks; Will can hear the sarcastic hint to his tone.

“Not yet. But I will.” Will runs another search and nearly falls out of his seat when a webpage with the information he’s looking for pops up. “I found his obit!”

Sizemore leans over, scratching at his chin, and starts reading. “ ‘Edward N. Chandler, ball-player for the Detroit Tigers, was summoned by death on February 19th, at 10:00 o’clock in the morning. Mr. Chandler was traveling with his fiancée Elizabeth M. Martin of Kathleen, Florida to the Tigers’ Lakeland complex when their car struck a large rock in the middle of the road and careened out of control. Ms. Martin survived the accident with minor injuries and is convalescing at home.’ ”

Will scrolls down to a black-and-white image of Chandler and his fiancée, Elizabeth. His blood runs cold. “It’s him. It’s all true,” Will whispers.

“Maybe somebody’s just playin’ a really elaborate prank,” Sizemore suggests, but even he sounds like he’s starting to believe.

Will shakes his head and prints off the the page with the photo. “I need to find out why he’s still here and how to help him.” He grabs the piece of paper out of the printer tray and jumps out of his seat.

Sizemore jumps up too and grabs him by the shoulder. “Will, will you just stop for a second and think about this? You’re talkin’ crazy. We both know there’s no such thing as ghosts. There has to be a logical explanation.”

Will folds up the piece of paper and shoves it into his pocket. “There’s only one explanation that makes sense to me,” he says, shrugging Sizemore’s hand away. “I’m right about this, I know I am. Just trust me on this, Scott. I’m gonna need your help.”

Sizemore sighs. “All right. What d’you need me to do?”

-

Will crouches in front of his locker and glances up at Sizemore. “If I start acting kind of funny, pull me back. No questions. Okay?”

Sizemore nods. “Got it.”

“Okay. Let’s do this.” Will reaches out and raps his fist against the locker’s wooden frame and down the sides. It isn’t until he gets to the bottom of the locker stall that he finds what he was looking for; one of the boards is loose.

Will grabs the crowbar he nicked from the groundskeeper’s toolshed and starts prying the boards up.

“What d’you think you’re gonna find,” Sizemore asks.

“I’m not sure. But there’s gotta be something in this locker that’s keeping him here.” Will rips up one of the wooden planks and slips a hand through the opening. His fingers come in contact with scratchy fabric. He grabs whatever it is and pulls it out of the hole in the bottom of his locker.

“It’s his jersey,” Sizemore says, sounding thunderstruck. “It’s gotta be.”

The old jersey is stiff and yellowed with age; Will unfolds it carefully and brushes off cobwebs and dust. “This must be why he’s still here.” Something is peeking out from the collar and he pulls it free; it’s a scrap of paper. _In memoriam; on our minds and in our hearts_ is scrawled on it in careful, practiced handwriting.

Something compels Will to slip the jersey on and he does, sliding his arms through the long, billowy sleeves. It fits perfectly, and he thinks maybe that should weird him out, but it doesn’t. He flattens a hand down the front of the jersey, over the old English D stitched over his heart.

“You sure that’s such a good idea,” Sizemore asks, digging in his pockets and producing a lighter. “We should burn it.”

Will reaches up and tugs at the collar. “What? Why?”

“It’s how they do it on that TV show,” Sizemore says with a shrug.

Will slips the jersey off and slings it over his arm. “Okay, let’s go.”

-

Will sets the jersey gently down on the parking lot asphalt and takes the plastic lighter from Sizemore. A light breeze kicks up and sends an accordioned Starbucks cup skittering across the asphalt. Sizemore steps back and looks around, but there’s no one else out there besides them.

Will flicks the lighter with his thumbnail and touches the flame to the jersey. Once the jersey catches fire, Will tucks the lighter back in Sizemore’s hand and pushes himself to his feet.

“You think this’ll work?” Will asks, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I dunno. If it doesn’t, I guess you’re stuck with a ghost.” Sizemore laughs wryly.

Will crosses his arms over his chest and glances back toward the ballpark. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

The two of them stand there together and watch Eddie Chandler’s jersey burn down to ash.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
